Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘–ilgrim’s Gate has fallen. Repeat – Pilgrim’s Gate has fallen. Canoness’ Retreat, on the southern causeway, has been overrun. Sororitas detachment pulling back to the Idolaters’ Walk.’ Tyre’s voice came in hard gasps.

  ‘Tyre – this is Calder. Status of the cathedral-palace?’

  ‘Calder? You still live, then. Good. I was getting worried.’ Tyre’s voice was momentarily lost in a rush of static. Calder heard a crash of artillery and shouts. Soldiers scattered as debris fell from on high to slam down on the landing. ‘We’re in one piece – barely. The command bunker is solid, but Eamon’s ancestors are rolling in their crypts. They’re smashing us apart, piece by piece. Is the Cardinal’s Gate…?’

  ‘We hold it still. We may need to fall back to the antechamber, however. The enemy have reinforcements.’

  ‘So do we, if the reports are to be believed.’

  ‘Perhaps. The question is – who gets here first?’

  Tyre’s reply was lost in a wash of static. Calder strained, trying to hear the swordmaster’s voice but instead heard only laughter. Not human laughter. It echoed from every vox. Men and women stopped working to listen. Lorr smashed their remaining vox-caster, silencing the laughter.

  ‘Witchery,’ she said flatly.

  Calder nodded, cutting his own vox-link. There were things moving through the smoke below. Not Word Bearers. Lorr sniffed the air and smiled widely. ‘They come – the hounds of unbelief.’ She lifted her maul and it crackled as she activated it. At that moment, the first of the daemons erupted from the smoke. It paused for an instant, bestial head cocked – a red-skinned nightmare, with horns of brass and hooves of iron. Then, with a great cry it bounded towards the Cardinal’s Gate.

  A few seconds later, a hundred more burst from the smoke and rushed in its wake.

  Eamon stumbled as the cathedral-palace shuddered to its foundations. One of his bodyguards steadied him. The walls of the corridor groaned. Conduits popped loose, spilling fluid across the floor. He could hear the dull boom of the enemy guns. They were close enough now to target the palace. That implied that the lieutenant’s strategy was coming unravelled – or that he’d underestimated the enemy. Or maybe it was simply the God-Emperor’s will.

  Maybe it was time for an ending. An apocalypse in form, as well as function. But if so, he would meet it with as much courage as he could muster. That much, and one other thing besides, he could do.

  One of his Crusaders suddenly flung up his shield as part of the ceiling cracked and gave way. Chunks of stone and metal slammed down against the face of suppression shield and cascaded off, narrowly missing Eamon’s skull. The Crusader staggered from the impact and shoved Eamon forward. Sparks spilled down as power cables tore away from the wall. The other Crusader dragged him on, towards the end of the corridor and the Anchorite’s cell. He’d insisted on coming, over Tyre’s objections. He’d prayed on it – asked for guidance. And knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was the right thing to do.

  He had faith.

  The guardian servitors lurched from their alcoves, squalling in protest. They were damaged – maddened by the reverberations echoing through the palace. Or perhaps simply acting on some command he wasn’t aware of. They had been designed centuries ago, and there were layers to their programming that defied even his authority as cardinal-governor.

  They did not bother to demand his identity. They simply attacked. The Crusader forced him back and lunged, utterly silent. She parried the first attack with her shield, but found herself driven back by the first of the servitors. The second lunged for Eamon, claws extended. Eamon fell back, hands thrown up.

  There was a crunch, and the servitor jerked to a halt. A grey talon gripped it by the back of the skull. Beyond the writhing automaton, Eamon could see that the entrance to the Anchorite’s cell had been forced open. The Dreadnought had thrust one of his arms out to snag the servitor. As Eamon watched, the Dreadnought slowly crushed the servitor’s head. Its bladed limbs thrashed wildly for a moment.

  The remaining servitor whirled, screeching. The Dreadnought forced his way into the corridor, even as the automaton sprang for him. A single blow was enough to hurl the servitor to the floor in a broken heap. The Anchorite looked down at it for a moment, and then turned his red gaze on Eamon.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here, boy.’

  ‘Neither should you.’

  The Anchorite laughed. The lumens flickered as the corridor shook. ‘Why are you here, Eamon? Why disturb my solitude, when you should be safe in your command bunker?’

  ‘Necessity,’ Eamon said. ‘Your brothers – former brothers – are coming. The lieutenant cannot stop them. They march on the Cardinal’s Gate and shell the palace from afar. We are out of time.’

  ‘Then let them come. I am ready.’

  ‘You know that I cannot let that happen,’ Eamon said.

  ‘Then you have come to kill me.’ There was a terrible relief in his voice, apparent even through the distortion of the sarcophagus’ vox-casters.

  ‘No. But I will die here. Standing between you and the fate you welcome.’ Eamon shook his head. ‘As the lieutenant will die. How many others? And for what? For you. We have given you sanctuary for centuries. And now the debt has come due.’ The words were like poison in his mouth. Words he had sworn never to say. The secret of the Anchorite had been held in trust for generations, as Almace had, and now it was all undone. By his weakness. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he did not look away.

  The Anchorite was silent.

  Eamon stared at him, trying to find the words that would convince him. He had always been good with words, good at convincing – a born priest, as his father had often said. But here, now, his words failed him. He could think of only one thing to say. Only one word. ‘Please,’ he said softly.

  The Anchorite stepped forward, looming over him, red gaze burning. ‘You will not kill me. You will not step aside. You force me to take matters into my own hands.’ The Crusaders tensed. Eamon waved them back, as the Anchorite set gentle claws upon his shoulders. He felt their terrible weight, and knew that the Dreadnought could rip him asunder with but a flick of those talons.

  ‘You think that I can stop them, where others cannot?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Eamon answered, honestly.

  ‘Then why ask?’

  Eamon bowed his head. ‘I have faith.’

  The Anchorite made a sound that might have been a sigh.

  ‘Very well. Then the last son of Colchis shall go to war one final time.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  97:50:30

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  Amatnim climbed the steps, his hearts thundering loudly in his chest. He was close. He could taste the nectar of victory – of glory – on his tongue. He could hear the roar of guns, the screams of the dying. The daemons had reached the enemy first.

  ‘We should wait,’ Apis said, from beside him, his form indistinct in the thick pall of smoke and dust. ‘Let them slaughter where they will. Let them have their fill of blood before the sanctity of this place drives them back into the outer darkness.’

  ‘No. I would be there when the gates open. I must be there.’ Amatnim climbed more quickly as long shadows twitched and writhed over him. The spires of the cathedral-palace trembled as Dusep’s guns continued to strike. The palace was not undefended. Weapons emplacements built into the outer shell vomited fire and streams of plasma onto the streets below. The uppermost spires spat flak at circling attack craft and the frigates in low orbit. But it was all in vain. It was like a dying beast, lashing out in its final moments.

  The steps trembled as he climbed higher and higher. The city spun away from him in semicircles of smoke-obscured grey. He could see the lower reaches burning. Hear the clamour of battle. A miniscule tacticum display showed him casualty readouts and data streams from his s
ubordinates, but he ignored them all. It no longer mattered. Nothing mattered now, save that he was here in this place, and the object of his quest was at hand.

  It had taken centuries to reach this point. A quest begun on a squalid shrine world, entirely by chance. A moment’s curiosity had led him here. He laughed suddenly, overcome by it all. He wondered what Kor Phaeron would say. What would Erebus do, when he learned of it? The future of the Legion rested on his actions here, and a part of him wondered if perhaps the gods meant for him to be something more than just a knight on a quest.

  He stopped, struck by the thought. Apis stopped as well. ‘What is it?’

  Amatnim looked at him, and through him, the Legion itself. How many were like Apis – devoted but not fanatical? How many would prefer to shed the mutterings of Dark Apostles, and return control of the Legion to the true defenders of the faith? How many might follow him, if the revelations to come truly broke the Legion?

  He felt something at his back, like a wash of heat. He heard the distant murmur of inhuman voices, and knew the gods were speaking to him. Had they not guided him all this time? Had they not preserved him – protected him? Even from their own worshippers and servants. And suddenly, he knew why. Not just to find the truth. But to make use of it.

  He saw a vision of himself, breaking the solitude of the Urizen and drawing him forth. Of Kor Phaeron and Erebus and Marduk and all the rest, lying broken in the dust. The Dark Council shattered and forgotten, as the Legion shed all weakness and pettiness, as they at last learned the lesson Lorgar had sought to teach them.

  The Urizen would return, and Amatnim Ur-Nabas Lash would be at his right hand.

  ‘A day of reckoning is upon us, brother,’ Amatnim said to Apis. He turned, looking down at the Word Bearers following in their wake. The mortals had been left behind and the daemons had surged ahead, leaving him and his brothers caught in the middle, as always. ‘A day when all lies are stripped away and all truths are revealed. When the old gives way to the new, and a better world rises from the ashes of the past.’ He gestured to the gates above. ‘We are on the cusp of that new day, brothers. Will you help me see it through?’

  ‘Gloria Aeterna,’ Apis said. One by one, the others picked it up, until they were all chanting the phrase. Amatnim looked at them and for a fleeting instant was reminded of simpler days and better ones, when the words had meant something different.

  Maybe those days could come again, if he were strong enough.

  He nodded and turned, and without pause broke into a sprint, climbing the remaining steps at speed. He drew his bolt pistol and his axe-rake as he moved. Ichor stained the uppermost steps, and chunks of broken statues and fallen rubble forced him to break his stride. He could smell the stink of daemons and the sour acridity of human blood.

  The space at the top of the steps was larger than any landing platform. It was akin to a central plaza, ringed by statues and overshot by a canopy of fluttering parchment, banners and silk devices, all whipping about in the fiery winds.

  The landing was full of death and smoke. The Neverborn made for perfect shock troops. They did not know the meaning of fear, and so hurled themselves forward ceaselessly. A never-ending wave of murder. They glutted themselves on it, on the blood and the pain. Every fallen enemy made them stronger, gave them a few more moments of solidity.

  Something hissed. Amatnim turned and saw a bloodletter crouched on a shattered plinth, its sword balanced across its bony shoulders. It stared at him with eyes like simmering embers and spoke. The words jolted the air and made the smoke dance.

  Amatnim nodded. ‘I understand.’

  The bloodletter laughed gutturally and leapt down. In moments it was gone, returned to the fray. ‘What did it say?’ Apis asked.

  ‘That this world drains their strength – it is steeped in the stuff of anathema. But once we have done as we have come to do, they will be free to shout and revel and kill as they like.’ He looked at Apis. ‘It was wishing us luck. Come, spread out. Dispersed formation. We have a battle to win.’

  Staggered bulwarks loomed out of the smoke. Bodies lay torn and bloody – soldiers, Battle Sisters and even the occasional Imperial Fist. Defences, no matter how clever, meant little to the Neverborn, who were as smoke and fire. Their blades cleaved stone and armour alike, and shooting them often did little good.

  It was a matter of faith – if you believed that they could die, you could kill them as easily as a man. It was why the Neverborn hated the Sororitas so much, Amatnim thought. The Battle Sisters believed and their belief made them a match for beings that were formed of raw faith and sacrifice. But belief or no, the Neverborn were still killers without peer. Even the most faithful soul could die.

  Las-rounds peppered Amatnim’s armour, sliding off the grey surface like boiling water. He turned and fired as a targeting rune settled over a soldier’s head. A Battle Sister sang hosannas as she fired from behind a bulwark, and Apis grunted as the shots caught his battleplate. Word Bearers sought cover. Amatnim continued on, ignoring the shots that broke the stones at his feet. He could hear Apis calling out, but paid him no heed.

  Enemies rose before him and died. But not so many as he’d expected. They were mostly falling back, or busy dealing with the Neverborn. His auto-senses pierced the smoke, and he sighted the gates at the far end of the landing. They rose up before him. Two Immolators were parked before them, one already a wreck, the other belching flames across a crowd of daemons clamouring at its grey hull.

  A shot took him in the side of the head, spinning him around. His helmet held, if barely, and he fired blind in response. His attacker kept coming, firing steadily. He staggered back, cursing himself for outpacing Apis and the others. A yellow form loomed out of the smoke. Another giant.

  He growled and slashed out, his axe-rake dancing across the warrior’s torso. Power cables spat sparks as the weapon chewed the armour there. The warrior staggered and tried to bring his bolt rifle to bear. Amatnim spun, chopping through the barrel and knocking the gun from his opponent’s hands. The giant reeled.

  Amatnim turned as a wash of flame licked over the broken bulwarks. The Immolator was grinding forward, crushing daemons beneath its treads. Vox-casters mounted on its hull shrieked maddening hymns. A Battle Sister crouched atop the vehicle, swinging a power maul in crackling arcs to smash down the Neverborn as they scrambled towards her. She sang as she fought, and her frenzy was almost equal to that of the daemons.

  He saw Apis and the others out of the corner of his eye, moving swiftly through the maze of bulwarks, fighting their way towards him. ‘Someone kill that thing,’ he spat, over the vox, and pointed towards the Immolator.

  The giant came at him again. He’d drawn his sword, and an energy field flickered to life along its gleaming length. Their blades met with a snarl. Amatnim grinned. ‘And you’d be the leader, then. I recognise those field markings on your battleplate, brother, though it has been an age since I last saw them this close… A lieutenant. Hello, lieutenant. I am Amatnim Ur-Nabas Lash, knight-errant of Sicarius.’

  The Imperial Fist didn’t reply. Amatnim laughed. ‘Stoic to the end. I see that some things never change.’ He held his ground as they traded blows. He felt the whispers of the gods, telling him where to strike, and where not to be. The giant was strong and skilled, but Amatnim felt himself to be stronger, somehow. Faster and better.

  Amatnim forced the warrior back against a plinth. His opponent ducked aside and Amatnim’s next blow chopped through the marble. He felt the edge of the power sword carve a chunk from his side, and he twisted about. He recognised the style – every Legion had developed its own schools of swordsmanship. In the same way every warrior of the Third sought to emulate Lucius, Imperial Fists all yearned in their hearts to be Sigismund. They fought like him, but without the sheer, terrifying skill of that long-dead champion.

  He slammed the pommel of his weapon down, catching his
opponent’s blade and wrenching it from the warrior’s grip. Before his foe could react, he swung the edge of the axe-rake into the giant’s midsection. The grappling barb hooked the armour there, and the chain teeth sawed into the ceramite. Blood spurted, staining his gauntlet. He ripped the blade loose and stepped back as the giant sank down.

  ‘Yes. Some things never change. Sigismund was overextending himself in the same fashion centuries ago. Only he knew enough to ward his guts from a sudden strike.’ He raised his blade, ready to remove his opponent’s head.

  Then a voice like the crack of doom echoed through the air.

  ‘Leave him, boy.’

  Amatnim turned. The gates had been forced open, but from the inside. A towering grey shape stomped through the smoke, shoving aside the burning Immolator as it went. Fighting ceased as daemons and Word Bearers alike drew back before the newcomer. The Dreadnought stopped, red gaze fixed on Amatnim.

  ‘You came here for me.’

  Amatnim stared, unable to take his eyes from the ancient monster standing before him. The Dreadnought spread his arms. A gesture of invitation and challenge.

  ‘Well, here I am.’

  Almace, Primus asteroid facilities

  Lakmhu stood in the shadows of the pumping station, watching as the Glory Eternal perished. Its dying was a thing of painful beauty. A flowering conflagration, petals of fire stretching as far as he could see. The battle-barge twisted in on itself and fell away into black seas of infinity, carving a fiery path through the darkness.

  Two ships to one. The outcome had never been in doubt.

  Lakmhu slumped. Not out of resignation or despair, but simply out of a sudden weariness. Failure had never occurred to him. That the assault would not succeed had seemed a matter not worth worrying over. But now the moment of realisation was here and he felt tired. So tired. As if he had been straining at some great labour for an eternity, and was only now granted a moment’s peace.